Brahms, Edward, and the L-Shaped Room

I still remember the occasion when Brahms’ music entered my life. Well, actually, it knocked me sideways – it was while watching the film of Lynne Reid Banks’ novel, ‘The L-Shaped Room’ on television as a teenager. Posters for the film state that the score is by John Barry, and indeed the jazz number in the nightclub scene is by him. But the majority of the background music is a recording of the first movement of Brahms’ First Piano Concerto, Opus 15, performed by Peter Katin. The film clip above has part of the concerto, starting at about 2:49. Its emotional intensity, mirroring that of the film, was compelling, and the next day I went out and bought a recording which I still treasure – Emil Gilels with the Berlin Philharmonic, conducted by Eugen Jochum.Brahms concerti

The concerto, in D minor, started life as a sonata for two pianos in 1854, and was dedicated to Brahms’ friend Julius Otto Grimm. It turned into a four movement symphony en route to its final destination as a concerto.

I mention this because I’m currently performing Brahms’ Ballade Op 10 no 1 in D minor, known as the ‘Edward’ Ballade, from his set of four Ballades, written at the same time in 1854, and dedicated to his friend, Julius O Grimm. I privately wonder if the first movement of the concerto grew out of the Ballade; it shares the same dark feeling of tragedy as well as the same key.

The Ballades Op 10 form an interesting set of early pieces, written when Brahms was 21. A great friend of the Schumann family, and a particular support to Clara Schumann during her husband’s mental illness, Brahms sent the manuscript to Schumann while Schumann was in the Endenich sanatorium, via Joachim, who visited him. Schumann wrote to Clara and Brahms about the Ballades: ‘… how wonderful the first is, absolutely new…’ , and on 11 January 1855 Brahms visited Schumann and performed the Ballades to him.

ThreaveThe first Ballade was inspired by a German translation of a Scottish literary ballad, ‘Edward‘ – here is a link to the original Scottish version as well as Johann Herder’s German translation, which sparked other composers, too – Schubert and Loewe both set the words as songs.

Written as a dialogue, it tells the gradually-unfolding story of a mother questioning her son about the blood on his sword; he replies saying that he has killed his hawk. She asks again – he  changes his answer – he has killed his steed. She questions a third time – and he confesses to having killed his own father. And at the end of the ballad, he states that she will bear the curse for it.

Grim stuff, and Brahms’ instrumental piece has all the forbidding atmosphere of a ruined Scottish castle, steeped in dark history.

The ominous chordal passage which opens the piece follows the rhythm of mother’s words exactly – ‘Dein Schwert, wie ists’ von Blut so rot? Edward. Edward‘ -a falling, two-note slur representing the two syllables of his name.

Her son replies glibly -in a different tonality, and more quickly, as he lies about the blood: ‘O ich hab geschlagen meinen Geier tot’.

Again comes a question, more slowly; and again a flippant, untruthful answer.

The music now changes to a major key, and a long passage is built on a musical motif from Edward’s replies. Against it is a new triplet figure, combining to create a massive climax at Edward’s impassioned outburst: ‘O ich hab geschlagen meinen Vater tot’ which is heard three times in full, then in ever-smaller fragments.

One last question from the mother, accompanied by a disturbing LH figure, a ragged remnant of the triplet idea. But the question is left unanswered; Edward has fled. The piece ends quietly, with no slowing down, no reply – and no happy ending.

Here is Gilels :

 

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The Lunch That Never Happened

170px-Brahms_Johannes_1887Browsing through a 1944 reprint of Edward Lockspeiser’s book Debussy in the Master Musician’s series, I was intrigued to read an account of a young Debussy going to visit Brahms in Vienna in 1887. The source was an article by André de Ternant in the Musical Times of 1924, in which he described Debussy at first trying in vain to meet Brahms, then finally gaining access to him at a luncheon hosted by a friend. The following day, they dined together in town, followed by a visit to the graves of Beethoven and Schubert.

It was a hoax. De Ternant fabricated the story, which was faithfully quoted in early biographies of Debussy, but subsequently exposed as fraudulent – for example, here in the appendix to Debussy: his Life and Mind, edited by Lockspeiser, © 1962.

But what if it were true … a constellation of composers, linked together by a Lunch That Never Happened …

Wien 18, Währinger Ortsfriedhof

Beethoven’s and Schubert’s original graves were in the Währinger Ortsfriedhof ; above, far left, is Beethoven’s, and far right, Schubert’s, in this 1904 photograph. In 1888 their bodies were removed to the Zentralfriedhof, to an area with other musicians; Brahms joined them there in 1897. Memorials remain at the original sites – below is Alfred Brendel at Schubert’s original resting-place.

Brendel_schubert_grab

 

My imagination was caught by the juxtaposition of these four composers, so this year my recitals feature works by each of them, and this blog will explore those works and related subjects. One of the pleasures of blogging is The Unexpected; one never knows what new avenues of discovery will open up. Unlike André de Ternant, however, I will endeavour to write the truth.

1833 Wahringer Ortsfriedhof

 

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A Miscelleny of Nocturnes

moon31st December 2014. Another year has passed, another topic explored. Thank you, dear Reader, for joining me on a nocturnal journey through the piano repertoire. We’ve looked at and/or listened to Nocturnes by Field, Czerny, Chopin, Pleyel, Clara Schumann, Fanny Mendelssohn, Liszt, Fauré, Poulenc and Barber, and investigated music with nocturnal associations by Beethoven, Ravel and Sculthorpe.

There are so many more works to discover; here are just a few.

Grieg’s charming, short Notturno Op 54 No 4 features two trilling nightingales –

Britten’s Notturno was written for the Leeds International Piano Competition  –

-and Scriabin’s Nocturne Op 9 No 2 is for the left hand alone.

And for music with nocturnal associations, I’m rather fond of Debussy’s Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir, from his Préludes I

Then there’s Bartok’s Musiques Nocturnes from his Out of Doors Suite.

In 2011 Liszt had the last word; in 2012 it was Debussy, and in 2013 Britten. But in 2014 I’m going to give the last word to Respighi, whose Notturno from 6 Pieces  No 3 of 1904 is an undiscovered gem –

And I wish you all a happy 2015.

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Ravel – Gaspard de la Nuit

John Browning - RavelAs a child, I was fascinated by the cover art of this record from my parents’ LP collection, as well as by the musical works on the disc, including Gaspard de la Nuit. Especially Ondine. 

Ondine
Aloysius Bertrand (1807-1841 )

…I thought I heard a vague harmony enchant my slumber and, near me, radiating, a identical murmur like the interrupted songs of a sad and tender voice.
– C. Brugnot (The Two Spirits)

“Listen! Listen! Do you know what you hear?
It is I, Ondine, spirit of the water,
who brushes these drops,
The water on the resonant panes of your windows,
lit by the gloomy rays of the moon.
And here, in a gown of watered silk,
gazing from my chateau terrace,
I contemplate the beautiful starry night
and the restless sleeping lake.

“The waves are my sisters, swimming the paths
which wander towards my palace…
The walls are at the bottom of the lake,
in a fluid structure of earth and fire and air.

“Listen! Listen! Do you know what you hear?
My father strikes the water with an alder branch,
My sisters caress the grass with arms of white foam,
lift the water lilies, move the rushes,
and tease the bearded willow which casts its line,
baited with leaves, into the darting water.”

When she had breathed her song, she begged me –
begged me – to put her ring on my finger;
to be her husband and sink with her down –
down to her drowned palace
and be king of all the lakes.
I told her I loved a mortal woman.
Abashed and vexed, she dissolved into tears and laughter;
vanished in a scatter of rain –
white streams across the dark night
of my window.

In 2012 I wrote  about Debussy’s Ondine, who frolics and splashes about in the water, whereas Ravel’s Ondine has deadly intent as she tries to seduce a mortal to follow her to a watery grave. ‘Ecoute, écoute! C’est moi, c’est Ondine…’ she sings, in a beguiling LH melody, interwoven within a shimmering, moonlit RH accompaniment in a cat’s cradle of considerable technical difficulty. Clever Ravel; it is mainly the RH which has the challenging repeated-chords-plus-rotation figure, and later on an alarming sequence of double notes. When the RH has the melodic material, the LH is usually occupied with arpeggio-based figuration. It all needs lightness and dexterity, control, strength when required, passion and imagination.

Here is Martha Argerich –

And then, Le Gibet.  A corpse hangs from a gallows, reddened by the light of the setting sun. A bell tolls, on the same note throughout, amidst a texture which constantly changes. Remarkable pianistic writing.

Richter –

Finally, Scarbo. Malevolent, menacing, diabolical, a night fiend who, at midnight by the light of the moon, scratches at the bed-curtains, scampers about the room, grows to a huge size  – and disappears. Not a piece for the faint-hearted; Ravel intended this piece to surpass Balakirev’s Islamey in difficulty, and succeeded. The passages involving RH consecutive seconds are notorious, but none of it is easy, except perhaps the first three notes.

Here is Pogorelich performing the entire work, with the score added –

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Nocturnes – Poulenc

Poulenc in a sketch by Jean Cocteau

Unlike most nocturnes,  Poulenc’s set of eight nocturnes forms a cycle, with the final one serving as a coda (Nocturne pour servir de coda au cycle). They were composed at intervals between 1929 and 1938, and published separately at first. Below, Poulenc performs number one.

The fourth Nocturne, Bal fantôme, is prefaced by a quotation from Le Visionnaire by Julien Green: Pas une note des valses ou des scottisches ne se perdait dans toute la maison, si bien que le malade eut sa part de la fête et put rêver sur son grabat aux bonnes années de sa jeunesse (Not a note of the waltzes or the schottisches was lost in the whole house, so that the sick man shared in the festival/had his share of the party and could dream on his death-bed of the good years of his youth). I love this slow waltz, with its rich harmonies, evoking a vision of bygone nocturnal dances – and dancers –  in Poulenc’s characteristically bittersweet musical language.

And here is Poulenc playing it –

The other Poulenc Nocturnes are worth exploring, too; number 2, Bal des jeunes filles,  is charming and innocent. Number 3, Les cloches de Malines ( pictured below: Malines Cathedral ) has different layers of bell motives; Phalènes, number 5, is bi-tonal and over in a flash. Number 6 grows to a passionate climax in spite of it beginning Très calme mais sans traîner; number 7 brings back the sunny mood of number 2, and number 8 gives a calm sense of completion to the set.

The Cathedral of Malines

For further listening, here is the recording by Gabriel Tacchino.

 

 

 

 

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Lest We Forget

Poppies at the Tower

It is the weekend of Remembrance, more poignantly felt this year perhaps as we remember the centenary of the commencement of WW1 in 1914. This morning I make an early stop at Tower Hill to see the breathtaking installation of 888,246 ceramic red poppies, each one representing a British military fatality, surrounding the Tower of London. I am en route to work in South Kensington, where crowds of musicians, servicemen and servicewomen are gathering ahead of the Festival of Remembrance at the Albert Hall. Police presence is large, all who enter the hall are searched, and parking is suspended on Prince Consort Road.

Royal-College-of-MusicI go up the steps into the Royal College of Music opposite the Albert Hall and walk towards the foyer, as I have done many hundreds of times. Today, however, it is different; in front of the memorial to those RCM alumni who died in two world wars is a music stand on which is a wreath of red poppies. Each name carved into the wall is that of a musician who also walked through these doors, probably laughing and joking, young and carefree. Who were these young men?

Two names I recognize; one is Adolphe Goossens, a horn player,  son of Sir Eugene Goossens. He died, aged 20, on 17 August 1916 during the Battle of the Somme.

5-august-1916-George-Sainton-Kaye-Butterworth_lightboxThe other name is Geo. Sainton Kaye Butterworth – George Butterworth, composer. Aged 31, Butterworth was hit by a sniper on 5th August, 1916, again during the battle of the Somme. Hastily buried by his men in the side of the trench they were defending, his body was subsequently lost. He is one of the Missing of the Somme.  Butterworth’s song cycle, ‘A Shropshire Lad’, although composed in 1911-12, has become almost emblematic of the nation’s  loss in 1914-1918.

‘Is my team ploughing’ is one of the most moving songs in the cycle; a dialogue between a deceased man and his friend, who is still very much alive.

Below is a performance of it by Peter Pears, accompanied by another RCM ex-student, Benjamin Britten, who, with Pears, was a pacifist and a conscientious objector during WWII. Britten’s War Requiem, which features settings of poetry by Wilfrid Owen  amidst the traditional movements of the Requiem, is being performed throughout the country this weekend – to remember.

RIP George Butterworth,  Adolphe Goossens, and all the Fallen RCM alumni. Some of those 888,246 poppies on Tower Hill are for you.

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Fauré – Nocturne No 3 in A Flat Major

Gabriel-Faure-

Today, November 4th, 2014, marks the ninetieth year after Fauré’s death; an appropriate time to write about his contribution to the Nocturne genre. There are thirteen of them, composed throughout his career from 1875 to 1922, from Opus 33 to Opus 119. Quite a span. But I’m going to focus on Op 33 no 3, written in 1883.

Here it is, performed by Alicia de Larrocha –

Gorgeous, isn’t it?! A curvaceous melody in A flat major flows easily above a bass line of outlying octaves and inner chords – it helps to remember that Fauré was an organist, with the added dimension of the bass-line on a pedal-board as part of his musical psyche, even if it was not at his disposal on the piano. Long phrases give way to more impulsive, shorter ones – follow the phrase marks – and we drift momentarily into sharper keys, higher and higher, before settling again on the dominant, and cadencing in A flat major.

The final RH motive at the cadence miraculously becomes almost the entire melodic material of the middle section, starting mid-range in the LH beneath the softly undulating RH, which then takes over above an impassioned accompaniment. Back to the melody in the  LH – and listen to those ever-increasingly adventurous modulations – where are we going … at last we finally return home triumphantly to the key of A flat.

Once again we hear material from the opening, but the accompaniment is now in triplets rather than chords, occasionally in a gentle, rhythmic tug-of war against the melody’s quavers.

And then the coda. As before, Fauré  takes us gradually into the piano’s stratosphere, but just listen to those harmonies; adding a G flat pulls us nostalgically to the subdominant side, briefly combining both motives before the solo RH ascends even further – and a magical, pianissimo modulation to F Major…

Ah, we’re home safely.  A flat Major, and a last, lingering farewell to a snatch of melody. Lovely.

Faure

 

 

 

 

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